


SOLOVEY

by kin_kun



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Aged-Up Yuri Plisetsky, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Attempted Murder, Attempted Sexual Assault, Bullying, Childhood Friends, First Kiss, First Love, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Minor Character Death, Musician Otabek Altin, Platonic Relationships, Rock Stars, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-27
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-07-21 06:25:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19997335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kin_kun/pseuds/kin_kun
Summary: Otabek was a pianist who had been born in a family of classical musicians. Yuri Plisetsky had the voice of a nightingale, but had chosen to use it for screamo.A story not about how the genres separated them, but how music brought them together.





	1. An Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I guess I’m back with a new story? If you’ve come here from Waste of Paint, thank you. It’s good to see you again. Let’s go on this ride together.
> 
> This prologue is going to be about Beka’s upbringing and it’s going to take us to the age where the first part of Solovey - “Solovey” means “nightingale” in Russian - will take place. Beka will be around 16-18 in the first half. Yura will be 13-15. Then we’ll skip a few years until they’re in their twenties.
> 
> I’ll tell you more about it before the first chapter. ;)
> 
> If you haven’t come from Waste of Paint, I’ll leave a link at the end notes 🖤
> 
> TW: Reference to suicide.

* * *

Otabek’s mother went silent years before she fell asleep; a hurricane of chemicals in her stomach, shutting her down, one organ at a time, since a surgery that had gone wrong had already shut her up. Her name was Ilya. She had black hair that got longer as she got thinner, eaten away by depression, for not being able to sing anymore. Otabek was the son of a woman whose voice was known beyond Russia, lent to fairytale princesses in movie theaters, prestigious characters is musicals, translators of melancholy in the Altin recording company in Moscow. 

At four, Otabek was already knowledgeable of notes and chords. At five, of the tempo. At six, the keyboards. At seven, the harmonica. At eight, the piano. At nine, he was introduced to string instruments, however Tatiana, his sister, was already twelve and mastering the violin, moving on to the cello when she turned sixteen and was in the Conservatory. Anyhow, it’d already been settled that the piano would be the boy’s main instrument. It suited his personality, they said; playing as he sat down, using only his fingers actively— it was the right fit for a quiet child like little Beka. Tati had always liked sports and she had the muscle for cello and violin. She needed the power in her arms - it was like the girl and her instrument had no distinction from each other whatsoever. It was an exercise for her, adrenaline. The space between her eyebrows creased sometimes, when she had to move too fast or too slow. Like she was lifting weights. Tati sweated a lot when she played, but she always wiped her forehead with a smile on her face. She loved music; it was who she was. What their family was. What Beka would grow up to be, hopefully. 

His father was a lover of jazz, sax player, but he knew his way around every instrument the child could think of. There was only one thing that he couldn’t just go out and learn, the one instrument missing from his collection. A voice. Ilya was a young musical actress when they met and married, although Lean Altin had moved to Russian from Kazakhstan to become a teacher at the Music Conservatory of Moscow, his wife quickly caught up in level of influence and they became one of the most powerful couples in the industry. It was the dream of any musical theater kid to step in one of the studios of Altin Music. Of course, they remained classical in style. There was obviously jazz, then opera, instrumentals, blues, tango, soul… Never rock or electronic music. Never anything that couldn’t be contained inside the walls. 

At ten, Otabek was gifted his first piano. His own, not his dad’s. At eleven, he performed in front of a large audience for the first time. At twelve, he was at school while his mother underwent thyroid surgery. She’d been tense for a few weeks, scared of getting sharp tools anywhere near her throat and intubation. Beka’s father had always been a hopeful, positive guy. He brought her flowers the night before, told his wife she would be okay and they sang a song while making dinner. Tati hadn’t come home; she’d been staying out late. They suspected she had gotten a boyfriend. That night, prior to the surgery, Ilya walked upstairs to her son’s bedroom. Otabek hadn’t been able to fall asleep. He was concerned. He hadn’t said a word about it, however— he was a quiet kid, it suited his personality. The child felt his mother crawl into the bed and caress his hair. 

“My little Becky…” She murmured. “You’re awake, aren’t you?”

Otabek nodded, watching the stars outside of his window. 

“Mommy will sing you a song to help you sleep.” She said, then kissed the side of his head. “Do you remember the nightingale? When your heart is unsteady, all you need is to find one and its sound will bring you peace. I know you’re nervous, sweetie. Please, don’t be. Mommy is still your nightingale tonight.”

His mother sang him “Everything I Know” from the musical “In The Heights”. At twelve, Beka had already watched them all. Nina should have been played by his mother. No one had a voice like hers. There would never be a voice like her. And that would be the last time Otabek would ever hear it. 

* * *

The doctors called it “vocal cord paralysis”, said that it’d been caused by “nerve damage”. “Human error”, however no one was at fault. At thirteen, Beka celebrated his first Christmas. He didn’t quite understand why. His family wasn’t religious, but his mother had been planning and cooking the whole week. 

“She needs something to do.” Tatiana told him, as the siblings set the table. 

“She’s been writing music, hasn’t she?” Beka retorted. “Easter and, now, this? Dad’s pissed.”

“I can’t say I like it, I mean, I don’t really believe in any of this either, but mom’s depressed, Bek. I know you’re too young to understand it, but can you try?” 

“I can, Tatē, but what about dad? Do you even think he’ll come down?”

She sighed heavily. “It seems like he’s found better ways to spend his time.”

* * *

At fourteen, Otabek caught the first lipstick stain on his father’s shirt. His mother hadn’t worn make-up in a year by that point. He kept his mouth shut. He was probably making up stuff in his head. It was probably nothing. 

He was a quiet kid. It suited his personality.

The next Christmas wasn’t Christmas, really. It was Viktor’s birthday, Yakov Feltman’s son, who lived next door. Well, technically. Viktor was older - Beka couldn’t remember how much -, but he’d already finished school and would join Music programs in different countries. He was hardly ever at the Feltman’s home. Otabek’s parents didn’t really like him. He had grown out of being a bass player in a jazz quartette, one that Lean, Otabek’s father, had sponsored for years. Viktor had discovered the electric guitar and the punk scene in his travels. He was in a different band, led by some Swiss - very flamboyant - man, who usually accompanied him back. It broke Tati’s heart. 

Otabek’s sister used to think she would marry the boy next door. They used to be childhood friends, used to share a deep connection due to their undying passion for music. Tati used to write his name on her rehearsal sheets, back when he still used his father’s last name. On the stage, he had chosen to be called Viktor Nikiforov; some kind of prank on the baseball player with the same name and whoever was interested in either of them. He used to be the one Tati would hang out with past her curfew. He’d never been her boyfriend, although Beka could sense - as he grew older - that something had happened between them. His sister had grown a tad bitter about love. Otabek couldn’t blame her. He was fourteen and had never felt it for himself, but still couldn’t find a meaning for a feeling that would go away when no longer convenient. 

Otabek would compare growing up to realizing he had not been in a lake, instead, he’d lived in a chlorine-filled pool. It was clean, not because there was no filth, but because there was something fabricated, unnatural that kept the mold from forming. Beka was starting to realize that things were more plastic than they seemed and it was threatening to take a toll on him soon. They were classy, in his house. Polite. There were no screams during fights; there was no beating, no violence. Nothing more than dirty looks and control. Nothing more than his father walking away from his mother because he knew she could not talk anymore, leaving her in tears, watching his back disappear up the stairs to the guest bedroom. 

Ilya had lost her voice. Beka had lost his mother’s voice. He was thinking that, maybe, she would never get it back; he would never get it back. He was starting to feel a tightness on his chest that he had never felt before, due to the chlorine and its effectiveness. Due to his childish belief that bad things happened in the world, but not around them, not around him. Otabek was starting to think he’d been too sheltered. He was starting to lose passion for the piano. He didn’t know if he was the one who liked it or not, or if he liked it only because it had become easy. Mom would never sing as he played anymore. 

As a teenager, Beka began to get lost in thought. People had to snap their fingers to bring him back often. He’d heard it, when his sister was around his age, that it was just a phase. Otabek would swallow the affirmation. Forcefully. It would leave scratches in his throat, but he would swallow it no matter what. 

He was a quiet kid. It suited his personality. 

Perhaps the reason why his parents didn’t like Viktor Niforov was because he wasn’t.

Perhaps that was the same reason why Tatiana did.

One thing was certain: the only reason why they were hosting a birthday dinner for the neighbor was because Lean Altin was a raging atheist and he would not tolerate another Christmas party. Mom, on the other hand, still needed something to do. 

They had come up with systems. There were post-it notes everywhere around the house, and his mother usually held a white board to her chest. Her hair was getting thinner, Otabek noticed. He was beginning to notice a lot of things. Luckily, the boy barely had any free time. He practiced the piano for four hours after school, then two hours of sign language before going to bed. When his mom was close enough, they were still able to communicate. She spoke in whispers and coughs. She choked a lot on her food and water. She had completely lost her pitch. ( _He_ had completely lost her pitch). Still, at fourteen, Beka already knew basic RSL, although he never used it, only read it. Ilya was still able to hear, although everyone had started to speak too low around her, like mothers making their voices go high around babies. Sometimes, Beka forgot that it was a thing and the teacher had to call his name twice during roll-call because he hadn’t answered loud enough. That was one of the first signs that he was probably a little different than the other kids, and the first step away from them.

The Altin family was somewhat isolated in the gated community where they lived, in Moscow. Although they had neighbors, they didn’t interact much with them. Mr. Feltsman’s family used to be around a lot, but Beka had barely seen them in the last couple of years. He remembered they’d been there on his eleventh birthday. Him, Yakov, his wife, Lilia and their son, Viktor. The teen’s parents and the neighbors used to be close friends. He wondered what happened, but he didn’t ask. After all, he was a quiet kid, it suited his personality. 

Viktor arrived in all black. He had cut the long, silver locks that Tati loved so much. Turtleneck, overcoat, hands-in-pockets. How old was he then? Was he already in his twenties? Tati was going on nineteen, so most likely. Then, Otabek began questioning things. One: Viktor had no piercings or tattoos that the teen was able to see. (Beka quickly assumed it was because of the cold winter, because there was no way a punk like Viktor Nikiforov didn’t have the looks of a punk). Two: he was perfectly behaved. He greeted Ilya with a shake of her hand, another one of his over hers for reassurance. He smiled at her, told her her hair was pretty— it made him miss his. Ilya thanked him with a nod, the same movement the neighbor used to greet Lean from afar. There didn’t seem to be anything bad about him. At all. The way that he hugged Tatiana, a hand on the back of her head - for reassurance - and a murmur in her ear showed that he cared. Was he the supposed bad influence? Beka started to question. That didn’t suit his personality, and it was the beginning of an ever-lasting free-fall. 

“Look at Becky all grown-up!” The silver-haired man exclaimed, with a grin that narrowed his bright blue eyes, ruffling the teen’s freshly groomed hair. When they made eyes as the man bent over - Viktor Nikiforov was incredibly tall -, he patted Otabek’s shoulder and his grin carried the melancholy of the melody the pianist had been working on. Helplessness and pity; a wish to bear the world on his shoulders, a discontent at the realization that it was not possible. Viktor Nikiforov’s eyes reminded him of the time when Beka’s father still loved him. 

* * *

Otabek was barely a teenager. He hadn’t grown up at all. In fact, later that night, he saw his sister crying for the first time, in the back doorstep, outlooking the swings in the yard. Her hair was the same dark-brown as Otabek’s and their dad’s, but, at night, it lost any tinge of red, of warmth. It was pitch black, _like mom’s_ , in a braid that made the line of their spine as she buried her face on bent knees. Usually, Beka wouldn’t get up past his bed-time. Was that because he was all grown-up? He wasn’t scared of going down the stairs in the dark, not scared of searching the source of the weeps. Becky was all grown up, and he was starting to get curious. 

“Tatē?” He heard himself whisper.

“Mm?” She quickly hummed, trying to sound normal.

The teen led the glass of water to her shoulder and the girl flinched before taking it. Beka sat next to her as she sniffed. He could hear the sound of her swallowing. He could imagine it hurting her to do so. Anything relating to throats flicked him the wrong way. It reminded him of mom coughing; her cheeks had become hollow. Ilya didn’t eat much anymore. 

“Is it the neighbor?” He asked, trying to fill the silence. Tati swallowed again. “You can talk to me, you know?” _I’m all grown up._

The girl huffed, holding the glass with two hands and staring at it. “He looks so different, doesn’t he?” Beka didn’t reply. He glanced at his sister, instead. He watched as her lips trembled. “How come he’s still the same?” She asked, three octaves higher as the sobs caught up to her.

Beka took the glass from her hand and tried to hold her. He didn’t know exactly what he was doing. Tati was taller than him, it was awkward, but he kept his small hand on her shoulder. He started to realize that his sister cried, too. It didn’t stop at the frustrated grunts in the practice room. She hid it well. Musicians shouldn’t weep. They needed to keep their minds in check. They needed to know how to control themselves. They needed to be the vessel, therefore, everything had to be clear. At fourteen, Beka wondered if it was okay to cry. He didn’t mind it when Tatiana did. He didn’t find her weak at all. In fact, she could probably match her sounds with the violin's and vice-versa. They held no distinction whatsoever. 

“I miss him so much.” She sobbed, a hand rubbing her own eyes.

Beka nodded slightly. He should have noticed. They were too composed at their household. 

“He’ll come back soon.”

“I don’t know…” She wept. “Vitya needs more. He can’t stay anywhere, it suffocates him.”

“But he really likes you. He’ll come visit.”

“I don’t think that’s enough. Every time he leaves it makes me wanna rip my heart out.”

Beka’s eyes widened. What was she talking about? Was that… love or something? 

“I…” The boy tried to voice. “I… didn’t know. But… I guess you can tell me.”

Tatiana said that the neighbor had too much soul. She said that the bass was too contained for him; that Viktor needed something that would transcend his spirit. He’d fallen in love with the electric guitar, its potential loudness and its potential quietness. He needed a stage, a screaming crowd, freedom; from his parents, from his house, from his hair, from a jazz quartette in music studios. He’d always wanted to leave, since they were kids; he always spoke about seeing the world, what kind of music it would offer. 

“I wondered if I should follow him.” She revealed. “But mom and dad would hate me. And I was too scared, to be honest, they always painted such a horrible picture of the outside.”

“Is this why they don’t like him anymore?”

“I guess. He told me not to be scared when he left. Tonight, he told me he was proud of me for hanging on. I don’t get it. I don’t know what he wants. To be fair, I don’t think he does either.”

“‘He’s just following the music.’” Beka quoted. 

Tati huffed. “Yeah. He’s just following the music.”

* * *

At fifteen, Otabek got a girlfriend. A red-head with caramel eyes who had seen him at a piano recital. She was his age and also played. They started practicing duets and she smelled like flowers and her nails were always short and painted light pink, the colors of the tips of her fingers - it made them almost disappear. She would rest her head on his shoulder after practice and dad would leave them alone, seemingly on purpose. Beka took her hand in his once. It was soft and small. She was a cute girl, Kamila. A gifted girl. She loved giving him hugs and leaving notes on post-it’s. Otabek always ripped them and smashed them in his hands. Those were his mother’s. He wondered why she thought he’d like them. Still, he thanked her for them and never showed his annoyance. He was a quiet boy. It suited his personality. That would be no way to treat a girl. 

They kissed at the piano. Her lips tasted sweet, like strawberries. Kamila kept her hands to herself at first, but Beka liked touching her face and stroking her hair. They weren’t allowed to see each other after nine, but Otabek’s mother made them early dinners. Kamila knew how to use every kind of fork, knife and spoon. She always wiped the corners of her mouth as soon as they were stained. She was perfect. 

Beka was quite bored. 

His mother was spending more of her time in her bedroom. His father had made the guestroom his own. Lean was more impatient everyday. He would go out and come back in the morning, smelling of booze and women’s perfume. Otabek had grown to be the one that gave the dirty looks, and his father gave them back. It didn’t take long before he began monitoring the teen’s piano practices, slapping his hand when he pressed the wrong key, thirsty for control. Beka’s father wanted to leave. He was miserable. He had fallen in love with the voice of a woman, not the woman herself. He had had children with the woman whose voice he had fallen in love with. Without the voice, he had no children. He never invited Otabek to the studio anymore.

Beka dreaded growing up. He started to feel things he wasn’t supposed to. He was a vessel, he had to be clean. There was no room for moping around. However, he noticed the locked door to his mother’s bedroom more. He noticed the bags under her eyes. He knew everyone in the house cried, and often. He knew Tati was seeing a boy their parents would never approve of. Otabek missed his innocence. He wondered if he should practice longer, since he wasn’t taking RSL anymore. He wondered if he should have sex for the first time; if it’d be a stress reliever. Dad seemed to use it as such. He wondered if Kamila wanted to. He thought she’d agree. 

On Otabek’s sixteenth birthday, he didn’t have a party. Instead, his girlfriend took him on a picnic and they used the money they had saved for a hotel room; one that one of her friends had gone to with her boyfriend. Beka lost his virginity in the afternoon, cupping the breasts of a girl for the first time, and realizing that he was still too young for that when the sight of a drop of blood completely shattered his heart. 

As much as Kamila held him and told him she was fine, Otabek had never hurt another person or any other living thing. He felt guilt and shame. Fear of being found out. Regret. Too many emotions at the same time. Ones he was only starting to get to know, but shaped him with the pressure of a giant’s hands. That was the second step away.

Beka wasn’t able to get over it. Instead, he was faced with reflecting on why he had panicked. He realized, after nights awake, that perhaps it was because he had always known his father hurt his mother; that Lean Altin had been sleeping around and being mean to her. Beka wished to go back in time to when he didn’t know anything. He missed not being overwhelmed. He looked at his father with disgust every day after that, until the day that he up and left without a word. Beka was the first one to get to the house after his mother took way too many pills to never wake up.

* * *

Otabek’s mother slept soundly surrounded by song lyrics. She looked peaceful. The teen froze at the door as people he didn’t know if were doctors or police men roamed around the bedroom. She’d texted her husband after she’d swallowed. _Mom, why was he the last person you spoke to? He’s not even here yet, mom._ Had Beka been too distant? At sixteen, Otabek had only started to realize that he’d drifted apart from his mother. When he was younger, he couldn’t tell the exact reason, but… It’d always made him uncomfortable to stay around her after she lost her voice. Beka grieved. He’d been grieving for years. Only then did he cry, watching her laying there, still; quietly. 

Tatiana came second, throwing her arms around Otabek’s shoulders from the back. Beka gripped her wrist in front of him and bit his own lip. He cried. Silently. His mother couldn’t speak. She couldn’t listen. She couldn’t show him the signs he had learned to read. It was strange how he thought that she would never sing again. She hadn’t sung since that night before the surgery. Why did it seem more permanent then? Had he been hopeful? Had he been waiting for the day when her voice would come back? Had he been _that_ naïve? Had he grown up, finally? Beka didn’t think she would get up. He never doubted she was dead, not for a second. Growing up was cold. He hated it. He hated it. 

Sixteen-year-old Otabek Altin refused to leave from where he stood to let his father through. He never turned to look at the man. _Not you_. He heard Lean Altin cry behind him. He heard him repeat that he was sorry multiple times. He heard the thump of the man’s knees hitting the ground. _See? This is regret. I know that now, that I’ve grown up._

* * *

After the service, back in his house, Tatiana said that she had spoken to their father. It would be just the two of them at the house. Beka had only started to realize how strong his sister was. What an amazing grown-up Tati had become. Otabek wasn’t afraid. He didn’t feel alone. He’d felt more alone when it felt like three different houses instead of just one. In the middle of the night, sitting in front of the closed door to his mother’s bedroom, Beka signed. He’d never signed to her before. But, at least, Tatiana wouldn’t listen. 

_Mama, we suck at singing. We’ll scare away all the nightingales._ He huffed. _So what now, mom? My heart’s uneasy._

He touched the door. He felt the paint over the wood, the plastic of the layer of varnish. 

_Mom, did you find yours? I forgot to ask. Since you were ours, where was yours? Who sang to you when your heart was unsteady?_

The teen sniffed, his eyes started to sting.

_Should I keep playing? I don’t know. I never knew much._

_I’m sorry. Mom, I’m so sorry._

* * *

The siblings were visited by two very, very odd individuals. First, the guy Tatiana wasn’t trying to hide anymore: the boyfriend. Leo de la Iglesia; a year older than Otabek, two years younger than Tati. She really liked the free spirited. Leo was a wanderer as well, only settling in Moscow because he was in the conservatory. But he had been born in Argentina, raised in the United States, traveled across parts of Europe and Latin America in the last couple of years. He had a lot of stories to tell, and he did; making coffee using a cloth filter Otabek had never seen before. They sat at the dining table for breakfast that Saturday. Tati, her boyfriend, Beka and Leo’s acoustic guitar. At sixteen, Otabek was introduced to folk music by a marvelous musician, who didn’t look like it at all. As a matter of fact, he looked like he could use a shower. Beka’s parents could never stand greasy hair. Viktor’s silver locks were always perfectly straight and smooth, falling gracefully on his forehead. It seemed like the stereotypes Beka had been taught were very, very wrong. 

Otabek had been practicing on the piano for a couple of hours when the doorbell rang again. He had left his sister and her boyfriend in the living room, so he thought one of them would open it. No. The teen got up and passed by his big sister making out with the greasy haired guy on the couch on his way to the door. _I guess this is the typical big sister role, huh?_ Beka was still getting used to that whole “being free” thing. 

Lilia was at the door, her hair in a tight bun and makeup done, as always, holding a blonde boy by the shoulders. He had striking green eyes; they caught Otabek off guard. 

“Good morning, Otabek.” The lady greeted. Otabek nodded and murmured it back, still quite shaken by the glare on the boy’s face. “I just wanted to introduce you to Yuri, Yakov’s nephew. He just moved in with us and, since he is new in the city, maybe you could be his first friend? Show him around school on Monday?”

“I told you I don’t need it.” The boy snarled through his teeth. Lilia pressed his shoulders harder, a rigid smile on her face. 

“Yurochka’s grandfather passed away last week. He’s having a hard time adjusting.” She tilted her head. “You understand.”

_That wasn’t a question._

 _But I guess I do. Now_. 

The blonde boy avoided his gaze and crossed his arms on his chest. 

“Do you…” Otabek started. He didn’t really know what to say. He was used to being a quiet kid. It suited his personality. “Would you like to come in for coffee, Ms. Feltsman?” The kid cleared his throat, still looking sideways. Otabek grinned and offered his hand. “Yuri?”


	2. Hairpins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I’m finally here. 
> 
> It’s so strange to write a new story. I’m still attached to the last one, so I took my time thinking about this, I drew a timeline and everything. I feel more comfortable with it now, although I can’t wait to write them as grown-ups. 
> 
> Things will go smoothly for a while. Let’s enjoy the calm before the storm while it lasts. 
> 
> (Also, I’ve started a new job! Since I’m working two jobs now, things are kind of hectic. Wish me luck! I hope to see you soon!)

* * *

Being alone in the house, just Otabek and Tatiana, seemed to come quite naturally to them. They had talked everything over: nothing had changed. They would still get to school on time. They would practice their instruments until their fingers were in so much pain, they felt broken or boneless. They would use RSL with each other not to forget it. Each of them would set up their own alarm. They had the responsibility to get up and get ready, then come down to make breakfast together. Tati made the coffee while Otabek made the toast, then they cleaned up after themselves. The difference was that Tatiana would drive Otabek to school, which used to be their father’s job, since she had become a university student and, though Beka’s school happened to be close-by, hers was half-an-hour away. Some days, even, Tatiana didn’t even have to leave the house as early as her brother. She hadn’t complained, however. Tati was fulfilling a role. She was a vessel. Even though Otabek had easily accepted their new way of living and transition for that same reason, he was feeling sorry for her. It was different after seeing a person cry. Otabek didn’t really know if it was something that all humans felt, but he wished, with every fiber of his being, to prevent her from crying anymore (which seemed ironic, since she was so much stronger than him). 

As Beka was making his way around the car, to the passenger seat, he saw that Yakov Feltsman was outside of his own house, roughly tightening the knot on his nephew’s tie. Otabek instinctively reached for his own throat. He was in high school, he didn’t have to wear a tie anymore, but it felt like there was rope around his neck. Yuri was struggling, pulling the elder’s hands away, and Otabek was suffocating. 

“Bek, come on!” He heard Tati shout in the distance, probably from inside of the car. Otabek didn’t know. He was hearing close to nothing. 

It scared him how easily he was breathless and he started coughing, flashes of his mother’s desperate tries to expel air through her lungs. Otabek tried to shake the images away. Before he could stop himself, he was taking steps towards the neighbors. He needed to get Yakov’s hands away from Yuri’s throat. Tatiana honked when he was halfway, the teen and his uncle turned to him. Most unusually, Beka casually stood in the middle of them, his back to the blonde. 

“Mr. Feltsman…” Otabek tried to catch his breath. “Good morning.”

The elder stared at him with a confused expression over his ever-irritated face. “Are you all right, young man? You don’t look so good.”

Otabek quickly shook his head. “It’s just my… um… asthma. It’ll go away in a minute.” _Did I just lie?_

The man nodded slightly, then shrugged. “Pardon, were we making a scene?” He took his nephew’s hand from behind Otabek and pulled him to his side. “Yurochka used to be home-schooled, he’s never had to wear a uniform before, so he’s giving me a hard time with it.”

Looking down at Yuri, Otabek noticed that he was livid, a pout on that became him - Beka was yet to see the new neighbor without it -, huffing loudly, but flaming through his green eyes instead. Yuri’s hair was still wet, tucked behind his ears, long enough to make a curve under them, but shorter than when he’d arrived. 

“Yes, I understand. Ms. Feltsman explained to us—“

“Hello, Mr. Feltsman, good morning!” Tatiana interrupted. When had she gotten there? “How are you today?”

The elder sighed heavily. “In a bit of a hurry, my dear. Taking the boy to school has considerably tightened up my schedule.”

Otabek made eyes with Yuri. _Why is he saying this in front of him?_ Beka didn’t know what to make of the boy’s expression. It looked like he wanted to be rescued. As he tried to read the blonde, Otabek noticed that he was breathing again. 

“Maybe he could get a ride with us.” Beka blurted out, watching Yuri’s expression turn into a question-mark.

Only after did he remember to look at Mr. Feltsman, the one he was supposedly talking to. Otabek felt his sister’s eyes burning his profile. Their parents didn’t have a good relationship with the neighbors. It had already been too much to invite them in for coffee. _I know, this isn’t like me. Must be the lack of oxygen in my brain._ Yakov turned to Tatiana, the responsible one. 

“Sure, it would be _fine_!” The sister added, an octave higher than her usual tone of voice. “If he’s leaving this early and it will help you out, sir, there’s no problem.”

Yuri took glances of his uncle and Tatiana, but always returned to Otabek, as if he was waiting for him to explain himself. _“Why would you want me to go with you? You don’t even know me.”_ Or something. Beka wouldn’t pretend to know. He read hand signs better than he read people. He’d never paid attention to people much. Come to think of it, Beka probably had been too distracted to look into himself as well. He was doing things we didn’t expect to. Only in a matter of a few minutes, Beka was not “a little bothered by anything relating to throats” anymore. He’d become physically, asphyxiatingly responsive. Otabek had lied through his teeth, to a scary old man like Yakov Feltsman no less. He’d invited the man’s nephew for a ride, a kid he had only just met and who seemed to be annoyed at _everything_ all the time. 

_Oh._

_His ears are pierced._

* * *

As soon as he got in the car, Yuri took his blazer off, loosened his tie excessively and unbuttoned the collar of the white dress shirt in his school uniform. Beka only got glances of him through the rear-view mirror, but it was enough to help him breathe easier. There was a new sense of freshness coming from the teen on the backseat: he wasted no time messing all of his hair up and putting his earphones on. Otabek and Tatiana left him be. They talked about their studies and practices on the way. Yuri didn’t seem to mind them either. Strangely, the kid was quieter than Beka had imagined. He wondered if his fits of anger were for show, and for specific people. Tati had to snap her fingers at him when they arrived because he was too immersed in whatever he’d been listening. Perhaps he was into music as well? It wouldn’t be surprising. His family was in the industry as well. It didn’t matter, really. _It’s not like we’d like the same music._

Out of the car, the blonde looked at the building like the aftermath of an apocalypse. _He’s never been to a school like this._ Otabek had always had the same routine, always having an exact time for everything, specific clothes for everything - even that uniform had become second nature to fix and tuck throughout the day. Beka wondered what the school was like through Yuri’s eyes. Like a prison? An orphanage? A military camp? A thought crossed his mind then: they were going through opposite transitions. Beka was supposed to be let loose, Yuri was supposed to be tamed. It sounded wrong. _So_ wrong. Otabek asked himself why did the blonde have to put his blazer back on. Why couldn’t he go inside hanging it behind his shoulder by a finger? What difference did one button make?

“They’ll scold you.” Beka warned him. 

Yuri made a face at him. “They will _scold_ me?”

“Yeah, it means they’ll reprimand y—“

“I know what scolding means, asshat. Why do you talk like you’re freaking forty?”

_Aren’t you, like, thirteen?_ Beka spent a second utterly confused, but, as Yuri kept staring at him with obvious judgment in his eyes, the older teen scoffed and it naturally turned into a soft laugh. It seemed to puzzle Yuri even more. Otabek nodded slightly, then made a serious face. 

“What synonym do you suggest I use, Yuri?”

The blonde put his dark-blue blazer on. “You asking me how not to sound forty whilst sounding forty sends me.” He let a chuckle escape, then mirrored Otabek’s serious expression. “I’ll use it in a sentence: ‘If you don’t look like a preppy stuck-up, Yuri, they’ll give you so much shit you’ll be buried under it.’”

Otabek narrowed his eyes. “A bit harsh.” The Kazakh reached over to button the blonde’s collar. “How about ‘if you don’t look like they want you to look, they will make you do errands or stay here longer?” Beka internalized the surprise that his hand hadn’t been slapped away. “Or worse: they might call your uncle.”

Yuri rolled his eyes and groaned. Otabek pulled away for him to fix his own tie. The blonde did so angrily, tightening it so much Beka had to clear his throat again. Even though it gave Otabek that much discomfort, the younger teen looked cute as a preppy stuck-up. It didn’t suit his personality at all.

Beka hooked his finger on the knot of Yuri’s burgundy tie and pulled it down slightly, just to loosen it a bit. To make it bearable. He curled up a corner of his lips and caught Yuri’s green eyes open widely. _Is he gonna hit me? He looks like he’d hit me._

“No need for that much.” Otabek marked, lightly, like telling a tiger that he was its friend. 

* * *

It wasn’t like Otabek wasn’t making any effort to appear normal. He was consciously trying not to even _look_ any different than the year before, working not to give any clues that his mother had killed herself. However, as he walked down the hallways with Yuri, theoretically showing him around school like he’d been asked, but practically being ignored by him as the boy listened to music, Beka found out that they had decided to pay tribute to her. There was a huge picture of Ilya Altin in every wing of school. _Of course._ It was less than she deserved. They should’ve renamed the school after her. Every street, every theater, every park where birds came to sing. She was the soul of Moscow. Otabek noticed that it was only when they were passing by one of those pictures that Yuri asked him a question. Mostly silly things that he seemed to come up with in the moments, like where the nearest bathroom was - although he didn’t make his way to it - or how many students did Otabek think there would be on his grade. The blonde didn’t seem to care about the answers. _He’s trying to distract me._

Otabek was grateful, somewhat. He didn’t really understand what was up with the kid. The older teen guided Yuri to the principal, so that she would assist him with whatever he needed. The woman looked at both of them like they were the only survivors in that apocalypse. Like they were alone in the world. 

“I’ll see you at lunch.” Beka told the blonde. _You’re not alone_ was what he meant. 

Then, the older teen politely said goodbye to the director and walked away looking ahead, trying his hardest to ignore the glimpses that his peripheral vision gave him of the pictures on the walls. 

* * *

When he got to the High School aisle, there was no way out, only through. Otabek had never heard that many fake well-wishes in his life. Wasn’t that cold of him? To have somebody tell him they hope he will find happiness again and just blatantly not believe them? Not even just accept their courtesy as he used to before? Just nod and pretend to still be the quiet kid that he was, it suited their personality better. Otabek didn’t feel anything. Nothing worth crying about. When he saw his mother’s face down the halls, he felt something like a knot in his throat or his stomach, like there was a strange object within him, threatening to stir his insides if he angered it too much. Therefore, he needed to avoid even the thoughts that reminded him. 

Kamila, in her skirt and below-the-knee socks, gave Otabek a kiss on the cheek. He’d been hoping she would not _really_ enroll there. Yet, she had, and was in his class. Beka had detached himself from her. It hadn’t been a conscious decision, it’d just happened after his mother was gone. He didn’t really know why. She was a nice girl. Pretty. It wasn’t like she gave him any trouble. Beka had just… disconnected. Or been disconnected. It seemed like, his whole life, he’d been hanging on by a thread and it had inevitably ripped. However, Otabek didn’t know how to break up with her. He was afraid she’d cry. He didn’t want to hurt her feelings, or just hurt her at all. He could play a part, he thought. It was a common thing to do, however dishonest. It would spare them the pain. Beka had always managed to keep to himself, to not even acknowledge that he had needs, so… maybe… he would still be able to do it. If he tried hard enough. He was a pianist; if there was a thing that he succeeded at was trying hard. At least, their seats were marked and, while Otabek sat in the front row, Kamila was all the way in the back. She walked over to him during the break between classes, Beka was still sitting down. 

“Hey, I’ve had an idea.” She began. Otabek listened attentively. “I was thinking of organizing a vigil for you mom; gather some people to pray for her, you know?”

_Where did that come from?_ “But my mom wasn’t religious…”

“I know, Bek. It would be more for you than for her, obviously. You’re the one who is still hurting. ”

“I’m…” Otabek was feeling quite the resistance from himself to continue. “I’m not religious either, Kam.”

She pressed her lips into a line. “Okay… Sorry, that was dumb of me.”

_What the hell is wrong with me? What harm would a vigil do?_ Beka reached for the girl’s hands. He held both of them gently. “No, forgive me. You can do whatever you want, okay? You have my blessing.”

She showed him a smile, even her eyes sparkled. _Yeah, it’s the right thing to do._ Those were the perks of keeping to himself. “You will come, right?”

Otabek felt his jaw stiffen, that was how much he did _not_ want to be a part of that. He took a glance of her again. _You are a good girl, Kamila._ The boy nodded, reluctantly. He needed the time to gather himself to muster the words. “Yeah…” He told her. “Sure, I’ll be there.”

* * *

Yuri was scarier at lunch break. Otabek went over to where his classroom was supposed to be, but didn’t even get near it. He saw the blonde walk out, with his hands in his pockets and earphones on. He was looking straight ahead, like the person he hated the most was in front of him. It was rare for a boy that young to have such a powerful glare. In fact, Beka had never seen anyone express their hatred for all that was around them that fearlessly. Shamelessly. _Honestly._ The blonde walked straight past Otabek. _Tsk. How do you do that?_ Beka jogged to get to the neighbor’s side. 

“How was it?” He asked. Yuri ignored him. “I know you can hear me.”

“Are you my baby-sitter or something?” The blonde asked, looking ahead. 

“No, I’m your senior. It’s tradition.”

The blonde scoffed. “Fuck tradition. I’ve had enough people going out of their way to annoy me for a day, so piss off.”

Otabek frowned. “Did someone pick on you?”

Yuri turned to Otabek, amused. There was a little smirk on his face. “ _Pick_ on me?”

“Did I sound forty again?” Beka ironized.

Yuri let out a soft laugh. “More like four.”

Beka shook his head. _Again, you’re thirteen._ He took a couple steps to be in front of Yuri. The blonde stopped, then tilted his chin as a way of telling him to speak. There was such freedom in how reckless he was. “Yuri, that’s not what I’m doing.”

Yuri lifted an eyebrow. “Sounding four or _picking_ on me?”

“Going out of my way to annoy you.”

It was quite intimidating how Yuri’s expression suddenly softened and Otabek suddenly couldn’t read him anymore. He took his earphones out. “Then what exactly is it that you’re doing?”

“Following tradition.”

“Fuck that.”

Yuri started taking steps and Beka found himself walking backwards to keep up with him. _I don’t even know what I’m doing. “_ Your aunt asked me to show you around.”

“I don’t care about this place.” He said, swirling the cord around. 

“But you care about lunch, right?” Otabek noticed the boy stopping. _I guess I’ve won. For now._ He smiled. “Right _?”_

* * *

The food was considerably bland as far as Otabek remembered. His mother used to pack him lunch, but neither him nor Tatiana had any cooking skills, so Beka would give it a shot. Yuri gagged at the taste of his mashed potatoes, understandably so. Since they had given the good a fair chance, the teens went for the plain hamburgers instead. 

“Grandpa would be _offended_ by how much this tastes like rubber.” Yuri complained.

“Rightfully so.” Otabek agreed. “My mom liked to make the burger from scratch—“

It was like a spotlight had suddenly lit the blonde’s eyes. “Grandpa did the same!” He exclaimed, amusedly. Beka found it adorable and quite heart-warming how excited he was to talk about the late elder’s cooking. 

“Mom would come up with all these alternatives to make us eat healthy, so she would make them with white meat most of the time. I think we even tried a salmon hamburger once.”

Yuri made a face. “No shade on your mom, but that’s lame.” He commented, forcing himself to take another bite. 

Beka grinned. _You’re right._ “How did your grandpa make them?”

The blonde freed his hands of the bread to use them to make gestures. “The greasiest, fattest, saltiest, most unhealthy, artery-clogging way.” He closed his eyes. “Ugh, I can almost taste it. _So_ fucking good.” Then, Yuri looked down, picking pieces of bread and leaving them on the tray. “No wonder he had a heart attack.” 

Yuri huffed and smirked, but seemed to be lost in thought. In memories, rather. Beka watched him, his junior. What a riddle was he. Angry and full of energy at times; Impatient, walking around with a demeanor of some who was tired of the world, at times; Smiling excitedly, being the thirteen-year-old that he was, at times; Then slipping away somewhere, in front of Otabek, who hadn’t taken his eyes off the blonde for a second. That first time that Yuri had slipped out of his persona… Otabek found it admirable. He wished he could do it himself. In the middle of the day, at school, look down and pick out pieces of bread, reminiscing; grieving. But he could barely see a picture of his mother’s face without blocking it out with the might of a cowardly procrastinator. For a few seconds, there was silence. Then, Yuri looked up and adjusted himself on his chair awkwardly, hurriedly tucking his hair behind his pierced ears with no earrings. 

“Why am I even telling you this…” He murmured to himself, taking a big bite of the hamburger as thought to keep his own mouth shut.

_Your mood fluctuates a lot._

_Is it because your emotions come in waves?_

_Have you no control of them yet?_

“I asked.” Beka told him. 

The blonde placed a hand over his mouth as he chewed faster. “As if I’d ramble just ‘cause you asked.” 

Otabek chuckled and shrugged. 

_So much pride in you, who’s shorter than most of the people around us right now by an average of two heads._

“Actually, wasn’t it you who was supposed to be doing something for me?” The blonde challenged. 

Otabek wiped the corners of his mouth and made the napkin into a ball, dropping it on his tray. “Yeah?”

“Oh, yeah.” He voiced, folding his arms on the table and leaning forward. “You were going to show me around.”

“Is there something else you care enough to see?”

He bit his bottom lip as he smiled. “Is there a pool here?”

“There is, but we can only go there for swimming lessons. Otherwise, it’s always locked.”

“Take me.” He deadpanned.

Beka furrowed his brows. _Did you not hear what I just said?_ “Can’t, it’s locked.”

“So? Just show me the way.” He said. Otabek still didn’t understand what the point was. “Mm? Didn’t my aunt ask you to?” The blonde insisted, tilting his head to one side, then the other. “Wasn’t it _tradition_?”

Otabek had to lean back and laugh. He crossed his arms on his chest. “Now you care about tradition…”

Yuri got up and walked around the table. “I’ll leave that to you, boy scout.” He placed his hands in his pockets and invited Otabek with a tilt of the chin. “Let’s go.”

Beka huffed and looked to his side to avoid having the junior catch the absolute amusement in his eyes at just how _random_ he was. Perhaps ‘spontaneous’ was a better word for it. Or something else, some other adjective that Otabek had sealed away. He turned his gaze back to Yuri, who was just staring there, waiting, as though he _knew_ Beka would accompany him. He wasn’t taking out his earphones. 

_It may be better if you never learn how to control your emotions. Then, you can be as free as you are right now._

Beka gave in. He organized his tray and got up to dispose of it. “Take yours.” He told Yuri, who obeyed with a roll of his eyes. 

* * *

It’d been too long of a walk for a door that couldn’t even be opened. Otabek was ready to just turn around. Lunch break was almost over. Yuri walked up to it, bending his knees to take a closer look at the lock. Otabek wondered what he was doing, but just stood there with his hands in his pockets. He was obviously clueless when it came to the kid and most of everything else. Yuri turned his head slightly, catching Otabek with the corner of his eyes. 

“Do you know how to pick a lock?”

Beka huffed. “You think too highly of me.”

The blonde straightened his spine and turned around. Otabek followed him. When they were next to each other, Yuri got his earphones out. 

“Tomorrow, I’ll know how to pick a lock.” He said. 

When he got back to class, Otabek was received by his girlfriend’s pout and questions of his whereabouts, softened by the graze of her fingers between his. 

“I was with Yuri” He said, knowing it would be enough of an answer. Yuri was a boy. 

“Who’s that?” she asked, bending her neck back. 

“He just moved in next-door.”

“Oh.” She nodded, fixing the collar of Otabek’s shirt. “Then, do I see you tonight?”

Beka nodded in reply. He kissed her hand before walking over to his seat. The teacher was coming in. 

Time went by slowly. Otabek questioned why he cared so much about his grades when what was important to him was music. In that train of thought, he wondered if music was still important to him. What was still important, really? He shook his head slightly, forcing himself to stare at the board, even though he couldn’t quite make out what it read. It was making him stressed how he did not want to think, but could find no distractions. _I guess nothing really matters._

“Poor little thing with no purpose…”, Beka could almost hear his mother’s voice. It was deafening. If only he were brave enough to stick a pencil through his eardrums. 

* * *

Kamila’s house was close enough that Otabek could ride his bike there and not disturb his sister, who was still in her practice room, where he still wished to be. At least, his time competing as a pair with his girlfriend was over and he was allowed to play whatever he wanted. Beka was confused by the idea; how broad it was. Kam wasn’t there, dad wasn’t there, mom… Well. Tatiana didn’t care. What kind of vessel should he become now that he had a choice? He didn’t know. Beka was lost and ended up playing perfectly. Flawlessly. He was technically impeccable. It was enough to win. It was what the judges always looked for in a prodigy like him, always introducing his parents’ names before his own. _Their son._ Who was he but their son? At the end of the day, it still weighed on him. His last name. His mother had a legacy he needed to protect. His father had a career, a company to maintain at the top. Tati was a rising star, even though the cello that she loved was never as praised as the violin that everyone did. Was he a vessel for his family, then? It would be easier to not think. He’d play like an Altin, then he’d hold Kamila in his arms like the fifteen-year-old that she met, the one who didn’t know what it was like to crumble. 

“Stay, Bek.” She whined, pulling him by the hand back to the couch.

The boy let himself be swayed, but supported himself on the back of the couch, leaning over his girlfriend. He kissed her. She still tasted like the butter on the popcorn they were eating as they watched “Grease”. 

“Seriously, now I’m going.” Otabek stated as he pulled away. 

The girl threw her arms around his neck, keeping him in place. “Why?” 

Beka grinned. He poked her nose. “Because it’s nine, princess. You know the drill.”

“There is no drill now, though. Your parents aren’t there anymore.”

_Sometimes, Kam, you can be quite cold._ It was probably his fault, though. There was no way the girl would know what hurt him if he never showed it. Otabek swallowed and shrugged. He gently released himself from her grasp. 

“My sister is. I’m technically her responsibility.” 

“Tati won’t mind if you stay over—“

“But my dad will.” Otabek interrupted. “I don’t wanna give my sister any more problems.”

The ginger nodded slightly, disappointed, and placed the bowl with the leftover popcorn in the space between her chest and her thighs. Otabek’s ways were unfair on her. He could easily tell when he hurt the girl, and he could easily go and kiss her hair, grin and make faces at her until she smiled, tell her he would see her at school, to have a good night. And he could repent. Be forgiven. At least, the people around him gave Otabek the chance to right his wrongs by letting him know that they had happened. Him… He wore a mask in return. He never let anyone make up for their missteps. Beka shook his head as he rode his bike on the way back. He was surprised by - and terrified of - his own thoughts. 

Before he fell asleep, Otabek found himself looking up how to pick locks. 

* * *

He was feeling sick. Kamila had scheduled the vigil for lunchtime, in the entrance hall. There was picture of his mom surrounded by flowers and he couldn’t bear to look at it; it felt like his eyelids were starting to shake. And she had even gotten the principal to allow the students an extra half-hour to pay their respects. How long did he have to be there? Watching people who didn’t even know her cry, touched by the idea of death, thinking of someone else that they would inevitably lose one day, or how themselves would perish. Kamila, hanging on to his arm, head rested on his shoulder, making it impossible for him to move. Whenever he looked away, there was always a new pat on the back, a new “My condolences”, a new “I’m sorry for your loss”, “I was a big fan”. Otabek couldn’t stand looking at his mother’s image and he was overtaken by guilt. If he looked, he’d cry. He’d fall to his knees. Pitiful boy with no purpose. How unsightly. 

It was too easy to focus all of his attention on the junior that squeezed through the crowd to stand next to him on the front, one of his earphones hanging like a chain on his tie, hands in his pockets. Two hairpins on one side of his head, making a cross to keep his blonde locks in place. Yuri didn’t look at him. Instead, he bent forward quite far to get Kamila’s attention. She didn’t let go of Otabek’s arm. 

“I’mma need to borrow this guy.” He told her.

“Who are you?” She asked, a bit of amusement in her voice. “Are you new? You’re so pretty, like a little doll.”

Yuri made a face of utter disgust. 

“He’s Yuri, the neighbor I told you about.” Beka whispered in her ear. 

“Oh! I didn’t realize you were so young.” She said with a bright smile. “And so cute! Look at your hairpins, wow—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, Strawberry Shortcake.” He cut her short, impatiently. Then, he finally looked at Otabek and he grabbed him by the wrist. “Come over here a sec.”

The blonde took him to a corner. 

“You look miserable.” Yuri deadpanned.

Otabek could _feel_ his own confused expression. “No, I don’t.”

“Do you need a mirror?”

The older teen didn’t quite know how to respond. He did _feel_ miserable, but it usually didn’t show. The right move was to deny it, but he already had, so what was he supposed to say while Yuri stared at him like a parent disciplining a child? Wasn’t it supposed to be the other way around?

The blonde sighed. He gave up, trying to change the subject. “Is that your girlfriend?”

Otabek was still taken aback. His movements were slow, but he nodded. 

“Is she always that creepy?” Yuri asked, looking like he had a bitter taste in his mouth. 

Beka shook his head. “She’s a good girl, you’d—“

“I wouldn’t like her.” He stated assertively and left no room for Otabek to contest. “What is all this?” He asked, looking back and gesturing vaguely. 

Otabek stared blankly at the crowd, the flowers becoming colored dots in the distance. The picture of his mother, a blur, ignored by his own vision. “A vigil.” 

“For your mom?” Beka heard him ask, but kept his gaze cold were it was. He nodded. 

Yuri got on the tips of his toes to analyze Otabek’s face. The senior retreated slightly by instinct. 

“You don’t believe in this crap, do you?” The blonde asked, with the smirk of someone who already knew the answer. Otabek just shrugged. “Then what are you doing here?”

Beka let out a heavy breath. He let his back reach the wall and keep him from falling under his own weight. “Kamila thinks it’ll be good.” _Or something._ Otabek sounded like he was reading a TelePrompTer.

The junior furrowed his brows. “For who?”

Otabek looked down and scoffed. _Good question._ “Everyone who’s skipping fourth period, I guess…”

“ _Wow_.” Yuri voiced in disbelief and… disappointment? Beka felt himself shrink behind his crossed arms. “You know, Otabek, I might not know you very long, but it’s clear that you have some kind of good samaritan complex…” He trailed off with a giggle. “Which is ironic for a godless rich boy like you.”

Beka switched the food that supported his weight. “Your point?” He demanded, dryly, instantly caught off guard by the expressiveness of his own voice. 

Yuri smirked, somewhat proudly. “I’m saying that it’s fine if you wanna be a model citizen or whatever, but don’t be stupid. This—“ He made a swirling motion with his hand, meaning the event behind him. “Goes against your whole identity.”

Otabek scoffed. “What identity?” He ironized. 

“Right now, you’re a good samaritan. But you’re actually a _godless_ good samaritan.”

Beka let out a soft laugh. “Can you stop saying ‘godless’ at a vigil?”

“How about _satanic_ ?” He challenged with amusement, gradually raising his voice. “Demonic? Diabolic?! _UNHOLY—“_

Otabek quickly turned him around and pulled him back, a muffled thump when their bodies clashed, placing a hand over the blonde’s mouth while the cleaning ladies walked away, glaring in their direction. Beka slowly let go of the junior when they disappeared from his sight.

Yuri’s ears and neck were flaming red. _I’ve angered it._ But the junior didn’t turn around. He didn’t kick or scream. 

“Follow my lead.” Yuri said and took hurried steps forward. 

Otabek did. He didn’t feel like he had a choice in the matter. In reality, he could tell that it wouldn’t be the last time that he would walk behind a boy whose voice did not waver.

They made their way around the crowd and reached the front, Yuri signaling with a hand behind his own back for Otabek to stop walking. He was only a couple of steps behind the blonde, who was facing Kamila. 

“Red, I’m taking your boyfriend away.” He told her. A frown appeared on the ginger’s face as she stole a glance of Otabek over Yuri’s shoulder. “He’s all shaken up by all this. I’mma take him to the infirmary or something.”

“Bek, is it true?” Otabek didn’t know what to reply. He said nothing. 

“See? I told you, he can barely talk.” 

“Then I’ll go with him—“

“No, no.” The blonde interrupted, a hand on her shoulder to keep her from stepping past him. “You gotta stay here and represent him. You’re his girlfriend, right?” He questioned. “This was your idea.”

There was a different type of heaviness in Yuri’s tone. Otabek couldn’t quite pinpoint what it was. It sounded like resentment. He turned around and walked past the older teen, pulling him by the sleeve of his blazer. As they walked by, people started asking Otabek if he was okay. He just murmured “Yeah” and, if someone pushed it, Yuri was the one to cut them short. “Light a candle for him or something”, the blonde would say. 

* * *

“You should learn how to do this, boy scout.” Yuri advised, taking the hairpins from his hair. “Might come in handy if you ever wanna save an old lady from a burning building.”

“May I ask where this idea you have of me comes from?” Otabek inquired, not mentioning the fact that he probably knew enough to try opening that locked door with a paperclip. 

“The magical gift—” He began, working the hairpins inside of the lock. It clicked. “—of sight.”

The blonde gave Beka a side-eye and a smirk before turning the doorknob smoothly. Who _was_ he? What kind of life had he lived? Why was he so young and so… Unapologetic. Or was he that way exactly because he was young? _No…_ Beka couldn’t remember a day of his life when he had had the guts to _decide_ that a door would be open for him. No matter how. 

“What are you doing there?” The blonde asked from inside. He snuck his head out the door. “Come show me around.”

Otabek grinned. “You wanted to see the pool.”

Yuri nodded excitedly. His eyes sparkled. How was he able to show such variety of expressions? Right then, Yuri looked his age. He looked like Otabek’s junior, although it didn’t really matter anymore if it was tradition or not, if Ms. Feltsman had asked him to or not, he was going to keep showing Yuri around. 

Beka tilted his chin up. “Go in.” He smiled. “I’ll follow you.”

_It’s only fair. You were the one who opened the door._

At times, it was a like a veil covered Yuri’s eyes. It was as though, for a moment, he didn’t know how to act, so he didn’t. He stood quiet, staring blankly, with parted lips and rosy cheeks. He did look like a doll. It worried Otabek what a boy who looked like him had to hear from prepubescent classmates. Perhaps it was a good thing that he had such a strong personality. Yuri would need it to protect himself. 

The blonde turned around slowly. Otabek closed the door behind them. Yuri took his blazer off and wrapped it around his waist and folded the sleeves of his shirt. He had to feel trapped in that uniform. 

“It’s a 50 meter. You’ll come here for P.E. sometime. They’ll try to convince you to sign up for the swimming team.” Beka started as they walked along the pool. 

Yuri scoffed. “I can’t swim.”

_This is the first thing I hear you can’t how to do._

“You can sign up for lessons, then.” 

“No, thanks.”

“If you’re not interested in swimming, why did you want so badly to see the pool?”

The blonde turned his head. The light reflection of the water dancing on his profile. “The acoustics.” He answered.

Beka lifted an eyebrow. “For singing?”

“For screaming.”

“Is this the part you come at me with a knife?”

“The goody two-shoes always dies first.”

Otabek, with his hands in his pockets, laughed and turned his body to the pool. “That sounds about right.”

Yuri stepped beside him. “Won’t you run away, boy scout?”

The older teen shrugged. “Exceptionally good kids don’t have enough fight in them.” Beka turned his head to the junior. “Care to know why, Yuri?”

“Shoot.”

Otabek stared ahead. He sighed. He had so many thoughts wandering aimlessly in his head. In a place like that, in the silence, it was like they were in their natural habitat. Beka sat down. He could feel Yuri, still standing, looking down on him, waiting. 

“They’re bored.” Otabek shook his head slightly. “Bored out of their minds.”

Yuri sat, his bent knees in front of him, his elbows rested on them. “You’ve convinced me.”

Beka huffed. “Of…?”

“I’ll spare your life this time, Otabek Altin.” The blonde stated, playing a role. “I’ll come back when you have more fight in you. It’ll be more interesting.”

“I don’t know if I should thank you or resent you.”

Otabek was surprised by his own words. He sounded sad. Almost… suicidal. He realized, watching the water, that the thought of going into the pool had become scary. The possibility, the slightest, most remote possibility of drowning… Even just the idea of being breathless or of breathing in water, of having it burn its way up his nostrils, was unbearable. 

Yuri scooched closer. He bent his torso and neck to find Otabek’s eyes. Differently from what the older teen had thought, there wasn't any judgement in his eyes. He looked… curious. A different kind of spark shone in that hypnotizing green.

“Does your girlfriend know you’re this gloomy?”

_You’re so random._ Otabek laughed and shook his head slightly. “Probably not.” _I didn’t know it myself._

The blonde pulled back and began taking his shoes off. “How will she pray for you, then?”

“I don’t think she would pray for me either way.” Otabek replied, not knowing where he would stop. “If I started losing in competition, then maybe. But this feeling of… emptiness is—“ He watched as Yuri folded the rims of his pants. “Frowned upon amongst pianists. We need to have one goal and one goal only, and that’s supposed to be enough to give us purpose. Otherwise we’re not committed enough, not worthy enough— it’s unfair to those who live and breathe the craft.”

“Do all pianists have a stick up their ass?”

Beka huffed. “Classical pianists most likely do.”

Yuri submerged his feet in the water. “Haven’t you tried anything else?”

“Different genres?”

“Different instruments.”

“I’m mediocre at a few.” He turned to Yuri. “My dad used to tell us that we aren’t the one who chose our instruments, they choose us to become their vessels.” Otabek took a moment reminiscing his early days, testing out notes with tiny fingers. “It’s ironic how you’re supposed to be an empty shell, but are scrutinized if you feel like one. _Tsk._ It’s like we’re already dead. Whatever instrument we play is more alive than we are.”

“That’s what Viktor said when he stopped playing the bass.” Yuri noted. “That he felt like a zombie.”

Otabek nodded, stopping himself from commenting about Viktor Nikiforov or Tatiana, even though he desired to. He’d strangely spoken too much, but strangely would like to go on talking. Beka had thought there was no language to translate the constant buzzing in his head. 

“You can do it too, boy scout.” The blonde told him. Otabek felt his own eyes widen. Yuri turned to him with a smirk on, hair falling on his face, the green in his eyes fluctuating with the subtle waves of the water. “You’ll even get a little bravery pin for it.”

There was more to switching instruments than Yuri knew. Otabek already had a guaranteed career ahead of him. If he were to compete playing something else, he would have to start all over. He had put so much sweat into being the best at the piano. The thought of it all being for naught pissed him off. However, Yuri was trying to give him hope. Otabek had never felt anything like it, but the junior’s words had reached him and they’d been like a gentle pat on the head. Beka couldn’t remember the last time that he had been pat on the head.

He smiled. “Thank you for saying that.” Otabek told him honestly. “And for getting me out of there.”

The blonde didn’t reply. Beka took a glance of him and he was blushing to his ears again, playing with his feet in the water and looking down. 

“What’s up with that…” The junior murmured to himself.

He really was adorable. And it seemed like he had a good heart. It felt like it. 

“Yuri, are you into music at all?” 

“I— um… Kinda. I don’t play anything like you, but I listen to music a lot— Actually, I think the good thing that came out of all this is that I’ll get to meet Viktor.”

“A fan of your cousin, are you?”

“Now that he’s not a zombie anymore, he’s a fucking rock star.” He said, with such wonder in his tone. Such admiration.

_“You can do it too, boy scout.” So a rockstar, huh? I doubt that was what you meant. Maybe switching to the cello like my sister or to the violin that she doesn’t really like. That’s the extent of it. I could never be someone you’d be a fan of._

“He always comes back for special occasions. What’s the next one in your family?”

“My birthday. But I doubt he’d come for that. Maybe Easter.”

“When is your birthday?”

“You know, boy scout, I’d tell you, but you look like the type who would buy me a gift. Something corny. Clothes or shoes, school supplies... ‘Piano For Dummies’...”

_Piano for Dummies sounds like a good idea._ “What would you like for your birthday?”

The blonde bent his neck back, arms stretched out behind him. He stared above. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

He grinned. “Grandpa made me pirozhki.” He glanced at Otabek. “Can you cook, boy scout?”

Otabek shook his head slightly, disappointedly. “No… Not really.”

The blonde hummed in response. A sort of contentment. “Then ‘nothing’ it is.”

_He must be in pain._ Otabek watched him gaze at the ceiling, wondering what Yuri was thinking about. Probably about his grandpa. Beka wondered where Yuri was when the elder passed. He hoped his junior hadn’t had to see it, the body of his loved one laying flat on a bed. Did they live alone in St. Petersburg? If it were just the two of them, there was no way… No way Yuri hadn’t been through a day that had made him grow up a year. Otabek was disappointed at how predictable he, himself, was. Obviously… obviously he didn’t know how to cook. 

“If I promise to give you nothing, will you tell me?” 

“Mmm.”

“Come on, scout’s honor.” Beka humored him. Yuri laughed. It was a breath of fresh air how honest he was. 

“March, 1st.” The blonde revealed, somewhat hesitantly. 

Otabek nodded. “I’ll remember it.”

“What for?” 

“Nothing.” He replied. Yuri squinted his eyes suspiciously. “Nothing!” He repeated, letting out a soft laugh. “Come on, let’s go. The extended break is over. We’re late.”

The blonde began to fix his shirt. “Damn it, I need a towel. My feet are gonna stink if I stick ‘em in my shoes like this.”

As he laughed, Otabek took off his blazer. What had that day turned into? He tried to hand it over. Yuri was flabbergasted.

“I ain’t drying my feet on your— are you crazy?”

“It’s okay. I don’t have to put it back on. There are some things a clean record can help you get away with.”

The junior got up hastily. “Then I’ll use my own—“

They heard the door open. The chatter of students waiting to come in for P.E. Otabek was painfully aware that he was in a place he was not supposed to be. When he looked back, Yuri was unfolding down his pants. _You really saved me back there._ Beka took a deep breath.

“I’m going for my bravery pin.” He told the junior. 

“What? I’m the one who picked the lock—“ He whispered, loudly, in a way that hurt Otabek’s throat. The older teen placed his index finger over his own mouth. 

“ _Shhh_.”

“Mr. Altin!” The woman shouted. Otabek remembered her from the past year. She used her whistle too much. It was a nightmare. “What do you think you’re doing here?! You know well enough the pool is off-limits! How did you even get in here?!”

At least, she had kept her class outside. Beka cleared his throat. 

“Pardon, ma’am. We lost track of time.”

“Time isn’t the problem here, young man!”

“Of course, of course. I understand.” Otabek took a step forward. “It’s just that my friend here, he’s new and he was really looking forward to seeing the pool…”

The woman looked at Yuri up-and-down. _He’s barefoot._ It didn’t look good for either of them. 

“Yuri loves the water. He used to practice swimming in St. Petersburg.” Beka turned around. “Right?”

The blonde quickly joined. “Right… You know, like, backstroke, sidestroke, butterfly, you name it.”

It required effort not to laugh. The woman kept a stern face, but she didn’t seem to be mad anymore. 

“Yuri, is it?” She asked. “Are you new in the city?”

“Yep.” Yuri deadpanned. Otabek tried to correct him only with a glance. “Yes, ma’am.” The blonde cleared his throat like he was allergic to authority. 

The teacher sighed. They’d drained the soul out of her. “Mr. Altin, please take your junior to the showers so he can wash his feet and go to your respective classrooms. I will let this one slide.”

Otabek welcomed warmly the feeling of pride that had found him over something as silly as telling a lie not to get into trouble. With his shoes in his hand, Yuri waited for Otabek to guide him. They walked around the pool. 

“Hey!” The woman shouted. They stopped in their tracks. “How in the world did you open the door?! Did one of the janitors give you a key?!”

Otabek’s heart was racing. It wasn’t bad, like when he was out of breath. It was… fun. 

“I don’t get what you mean… it wasn’t locked.” Beka lied once more, exponentially more comfortable with it. 

“Huh.” The woman voiced to herself as she nodded slightly. She signaled for them to go. “I must have forgotten…” They heard her murmur. 

It only took closing the door to the showers for them to burst into laughter. Otabek had to wash his face to try to calm the nerves. He heard the water run as Yuri washed his feet. 

“Oh my god, you were as stiff as damn pole.” The blonde commented as he tried to catch his breath. 

Otabek turned around, leaning back on the sink. “Just give me my pin already.”

“Are you out of your mind?” He asked, amused, turning the water off and sitting on the bench. “What if she asks me to join the freaking swim team, huh? What am I supposed to do? I can’t swim, Altin.”

_Oh. That’s right._

“If it comes to that, I can teach you.”

He scoffed. “You think I’m gonna spend more time here willingly? I’ll come up with something.” The blonde got up and walked over to Otabek. He took the hairpin off of his blazer and placed it in like an accessory on the pocket of Otabek’s. “Here, for bullshitting on the spot.” The junior looked up, eyes sparkling, filled with pride for something as silly as lying not to get in trouble. “Congrats on your pin, boy scout.”

**Author's Note:**

> See you soon! 🖤
> 
> —
> 
> “[Waste of Paint](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14771681/chapters/34162580)” (Otayuri fic - Completed)
> 
> [Tumblr for fics](http://kin-kun.tumblr.com/)


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